The Monster in the Mirror
by The Fictionist
Summary: 1) The Cruciatus Harry used in the Department of Mysteries was successful. 2) Voldemort arrived just a little bit early. Two small shifts, that change absolutely everything - and understanding is a more dangerous weapon than even Dumbledore could ever have imagined.
1. Chapter 1

"Aaaah….did you l_ove_ him, little baby Potter?" Bellatrix mocked.

The hatred rose in Harry like a viper, not burning like his rage, but abruptly ice cold. He flung himself from behind the Fountain of the Magical Brethren and bellowed:

"_Crucio_!"

His scar was ablaze in his forehead, but it was Bellatrix who was screaming. Tossed across the Ministry Atrium, screaming and writhing on the floor, breathless. The blood was pounding in his head.

Sirius was gone. Sirius couldn't be gone. She'd been the one to kill him.

"That's right, Harry," came a high, cold voice that almost crooned in his ear. "That's a good boy. You have to mean it."

And he fell back to earth. The curse cut, and Harry was panting like he'd just sprinted a marathon. Sweat beading on his forehead. Pale fingers tightened like a steel trap around the wrist of his wand hand, where before they'd almost caressed.

His heart was going to burst out of his chest - transfixed by deadly, scarlet eyes that were watching him with a peculiar curiosity.

"Master….master…" Bellatrix whispered, struggling for her feet, shuddering.

"Be quiet, Bella," Voldemort said. "I shall deal with you in a moment. Do you imagine I have personally entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your snivelling apologies?"

Those pitiless eyes hadn't left Harry for a second. He should have done something - cast a spell, yelled out, jerked his hand free from that unforgiving grip. He was frozen, felt like his knees had turned to water.

"Where is the prophecy, Potter?"

Lying didn't even occur to him in that particular second.

"Gone." He swallowed, before he pulled a vicious grin to his face. Some vindictive satisfaction for thwarting the Dark Lord's efforts, when it felt like his entire world had just concaved in two. "I smashed it."

It was only when the pain sprung up again, that he was startlingly aware that it had been missing when Voldemort touched him first. His breath hissed out between his teeth, and that more than anything compelled him to try and put distance between them.

It didn't work.

"Gone," Voldemort repeated, far too softly for it to mean anything good. Harry's wand hand jerked on instinct in the grip, as the Dark Wizard's wand teased featherlight along his jaw.

Voldemort looked far more thoughtful than Harry had expected. He'd expected to be Crucio'd himself on the spot, if not outright killed for frustrating the man's plans again. Why hadn't he tried to kill him, now? Why was he just studying him like he was a particularly repulsive, but fascinating specimen to be trapped between two slides?

Harry could hear Bellatrix sobbing, could feel his insides aching with the force of his grief, everything jumbled and raw like he was an exposed nerve. He half wished Voldemort would do it, so he could see Sirius again. So he wouldn't have to feel like this.

The next second, the grip had jerked him around, splayed across Voldemort's chest and Harry found himself face to face with Dumbledore's wand across the Atrium. For a second, Harry nearly melted with relief.

Except, Dumbledore didn't look relieved. And he was currently, however unwillingly, blocking a decent shot between them.

Bellatrix watched proceedings hungrily, still trembling a little.

"It was foolish of you to come here tonight, Tom. Let go of him. The Aurors are already on their way-"

"By which point I will be gone, and you will be dead. Avada-"

"No!" Harry cried.

Dumbledore had already vanished and had appeared behind them, launching a new attack at Voldemort's back. Harry found himself tossed aside, the Fountain jumping into action to seize him. Hold him back.

He saw the flicker in Dumbledore's eyes that suggested he wasn't the one behind 'protecting him' from the battle - which made his gaze snap to Voldemort. His throat thickened.

Not actively killing him was one thing, what the hell was this?

None of this made sense! Voldemort had never touched him and it hadn't hurt before. Voldemort had never passed up an opportunity to try and murder him!

The battle raged between them - fire and water and Harry felt his hair stand on end at the power of it and - Voldemort had vanished.

But the statue of the Golden Wizard hadn't stopped shunting back Harry's every move to step forward. Fear prickled down Harry's spine, eyes scouring the room and then-

He would have expected pain. He would have expected to drop to the floor screaming.

He didn't expect to suddenly feel rushed through with a warm sense of completeness on top of the stinging agony in his scar.

He was gone from the hall; wrapped in the coils of a creature with red eyes, so tightly bound that he didn't know where his body ended and where the snake's began. Knew, instinctively, that this was Voldemort.

_Kill us now then, Dumbledore...or are you above such brutality?_

The force of Voldemort's hatred was all consuming. It mingled with Harry's, the lingering ice of his feelings towards Bellatrix. The bitterness in his mouth at losing yet another person, the second that he dared to care and get too close.

All those years with the Dursleys, all those years at the Orphanage...no.

He almost felt Voldemort freeze at the same time as he did. The pain flared again, instead of that lovely heat which Harry wanted to sink into, like it was the only happiness left on earth.

Blinding pain, and they fused together, bound together in it.

_What are you doing, Potter? Stop it! Stop it this instant, Lord Voldemort commands you…_

A group of young children throwing stones at a small snake. A small, dark haired boy looking down at its crushed and broken body - and that hatred again. Swelling like the snake in Harry's own chest.

A rabbit hanging from the rafters.

The darkness of the cupboard - he darkness of a room - a gnawing hunger and-

_Tom…_

It took him a moment to realize he was the one who had spoken through the serpent's aching jaw, not Voldemort. Like a hoarse breath, cracking around the emotion of it. The empathy that cracked into the hate and eroded it, broke it open like a dam for everything else to follow.

Then Harry was lying on the floor, shuddering.

The statue of the golden wizard was in pieces around him, and when he blinked his eyes he saw astonished, loathing red a few inches from his face. Blurred even in close proximity without his glasses. Pale and serpentine, dark magic crowding him, invading him by mere presence. Intoxicating and terrible, and absolutely breathtaking in power.

"It's him-it's the Dark Lord-"

The wash of voices around him, echoing more and more.

Then Voldemort was gone.

Someone - Dumbledore - had slid his repaired glasses onto his face.

"Are you alright, Harry?" there was something urgent to Dumbledore's voice. Harry nodded, propped himself up shakily on one elbow. His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth, the memories still spinning uprooted in his head.

His own and…very much not his own.

"Y-yes. I'm fine. I'm-where's-who are all these - what's-"

The atrium was full of people. Bellatrix and Voldemort were both gone, and Fudge was staring in his direction, pale and sweating.

"You-Know-Who was right there, I saw him!" he was still blustering, to everyone around him. The whisper of the same thing went around the hall, from the Aurors to the group of Harry's friends disheveled and frightened-looking in the corner.

He saw Dumbledore look between him and them, as the flash of cameras began to go off.

"If you proceed downstairs into the Department of Mysteries, Cornelius," Dumbledore said. "You will find several escaped Death Eaters contained in the Death Chamber, bound by an Anti-Disapparation Jinx and awaiting your decision as to what to do with them."

"Dumbledore!" Fudge gasped. 'You - here - I - I - '

He looked wildly around at the Aurors he had brought with him and it could not have been clearer that he was in half a mind to cry, 'Seize him!'

"Cornelius, I am ready to fight your men - and win, again!' Dumbledore's voice was a storm. 'But a few minutes ago you saw proof, with your own eyes, that I have been telling you the truth for a year. Lord Voldemort has returned, you have been chasing the wrong man for twelve months, and it is time you listened to sense!"

"I - don't - well -" Fudge stumbled over himself, seeming panicked. In other circumstances, Harry may have been amused. "Very well - Dawlish! Williamson! Go down to the Department of Mysteries and see . . . Dumbledore, you - you will need to tell me exactly - the Fountain of Magical Brethren - what happened?" he added in a kind of whimper, staring around at the floor, where the remains of the statues of the witch, wizard and centaur now lay scattered.

"I will discuss everything with you once I have taken care of my student," Dumbledore said. The Headmaster rose to his feet, one hand supporting Harry's shoulder to drag him up too. "In the meanwhile, you will remove Dolores Umbridge from Hogwarts, tell your Aurors to stop searching for my Care of Magical Creature's teacher so he can return to work."

Harry stopped listening.

* * *

><p>Dumbledore's office was a mess, and nothing the man had to say made him feel any better.<p>

The news of the Prophecy, on top of everything else, was overwhelming. So was the knowledge of yet another thing that Dumbledore had kept from him.

Maybe, just maybe, if the Headmaster had told him earlier, Harry would have been better equipped. He wouldn't have ran so stupidly into Voldemort's trap - and it was an unnerving thing to realize that his most fearsome enemy understood him as well as his best friend did.

But Harry was beginning to get the impression that he and Voldemort might just have more ways of understanding each other than anybody would ever have wanted.

And now, when he needed Sirius more than he ever had before, the man was gone. Because of him. It was a kick in the face, and the mirror he found in his bag only made it that much worse.

He felt like he was being eaten up alive, by everything.

Wanted, more than anything, guiltily, that moment of blissful warm completion back. He didn't know how Voldemort had done it, but it was like peace in a touch. Peace was the last thing Harry would had ever linked with Voldemort, in any definition or sense of the word.

And, of course, there was that Cruciatus too. The revenge and the power that had bubbled so tempting in his veins as she screamed for what she'd done. Screamed for Sirius. It hadn't fixed anything, but, for a few seconds, it had made him feel better.

Now it just made him feel worse. Even more so because he wanted it again - wanted that control again, when it felt like everything else, even fate had been wrenched out of his hands.

The letter came in the early hours in the morning - sent by an entirely forgettable looking barn owl. Harry stared at it numbly. Made no effort to reach for the letter. Made no effort to do anything.

The room was full of the sound of the other Gryffindor boy's sleeping. Ron was still in the Hospital wing, recovering from the brain.

The owl jumped on the bed, dropped the letter in his lap, and pecked him hard.

The envelope just said 'Potter'. In an utterly elegant handwriting that Harry had...seen before. In Tom Riddle's diary.

That got his attention.

He wondered if it was cursed. Poisoned. Somehow booby-trapped.

Tested it for anything he could think of - which was probably not all that much, on the grand scheme of things.

Opened it anyway, because he could not bring himself to care about anything at that particular moment. Almost hoped it would finish him off. Finish all of this.

It didn't.

_If you say anything to anyone about earlier, I will eviscerate that mudblood friend of yours._

Then the parchment burned.

Of course, Harry did the worst thing he could think of.

He wrote back.

* * *

><p><span><em>AN: So, I wanted to try my hand at a story that deals explicitly with Voldemort, over Tom Riddle if we're making distinctions between the two, And I have this bad habit of writing stories at Christmas. So...Merry Christmas! Feedback would, as always, be greatly appreciated._


	2. Chapter 2

The Orphanage loomed grey and forbidding in front of Harry.

He had no recollection how he got there, and the sky above him was darker than he had ever seen. Darker than ever seemed possible - a pitch shadow that smothered out sunlight or moonlight alike and left everything eerie and chilled.

It had been days since he sent Voldemort a letter, and the reaction had been immediate. Pain, blistering pain to leave him twisting in the sheets, clutching hold of his scar and panting for breath in the gloom.

Since then, however, nothing.

_I take it that I touched a nerve then, Tom? Did you eviscerate the boys at the Orphanage too?_

Harry ran his fingers over the door handle, before letting himself inside.

There was nobody there. Not on the first floor, or the second. Everything seemed discarded and abandoned halfway through.

He wasn't surprised when he found Voldemort in a room on the top floor, though maybe he should have been frightened. It felt difficult to feel frightened, strangely.

The Dark Lord had his back turned, pale head bowed over a small series of seven stones on the windowsill.

It didn't hurt anymore. No pain in his head, nothing like that. Harry felt calmer than he had since the Ministry. He was aware of the maelstrom in his chest, but it seemed something distant. Faded.

"What type of nightmare are you, Harry Potter?"

He blinked to realize that Voldemort was even aware of his presence, considering he'd done nothing to acknowledge it. Harry came to a stop standing next to him, a little warily.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"It is not enough that you must haunt my waking hours, now you insist on doing so in my dreaming too?"

"...are we dreaming?" Harry supposed that made sense. He supposed that made it unfortunate that he had to wake up, however much he considered an eternity in Voldemort's head was not an appealing prospect.

But he seemed subdued in here. There was none of the crackling insanity around him; perhaps, that was the difference. The gaze that pierced him was terrifyingly lucid. And it had that thoughtful tinge to it too, which Harry was certain he was going to come to regret.

"You don't know?" was the response to that. Harry gave an awkward shrug.

"Dreaming and waking when it comes to you doesn't have much of a difference."

Still, dreaming - properly dreaming, and not simply having visions of Voldemort's past times - explained why the Dark Lord hadn't attacked him yet. But that was probably the only thing it explained.

He'd never fallen into Voldemort's dreams before. Actually, he'd imagined Voldemort didn't even dream at all, that he wasn't human enough for such a thing anymore.

They stared at each other.

"So," Harry persisted after a moment. "You're dreaming of...the Orphanage?"

Scarlet eyes flashed at him in warning, and Voldemort turned away from him again, fingers clenched like bone around the seventh stone.

Harry wondered, abruptly, if it was his fault. If he'd stirred up old memories, to bring the Dark Wizard back to the settings of his youth. He flopped down lazily on the bed to contemplate it, and could feel the irritation beginning to twitch in Voldemort's mind.

"I would have thought you would be more wary of the mind of Lord Voldemort, considering you have already proven your foolishness in believing everything you see." The man turned to face him. "Or perhaps you wish to cause somebody else to die? Any preferences on who you would like it to be this time?"

Harry lurched to his feet abruptly, fist clenched and body trembling with the force of it.

"Shut up."

"Oh, did I touch a nerve?" a mocking, lipless smile.

"_Shut up_. I'm warning you-"

"No, Harry Potter, consider this your warning." Once again, the sense of peace shattered to leave only the wake of agony behind it. Harry's head exploded, his knees nearly buckling, as Voldemort advanced on him. Gliding, predatory, more like a Dementor than a man. "Stay out of my head. You are not welcome here."

"Believe me," Harry hissed, eyes narrowed. "I'm not doing this on purpose."

"Well, it's not Lord Voldemort's fault."

"It's your dream!"

A hand closed around his throat, in absence of a wand and - there was that warmth again. Without warning. Harry nearly melted into it - Voldemort recoiled back several steps, letting go of him like he was grotesque to touch.

The only sound was their breathing.

"What are you?" colder and more clipped than ever. "How are you doing that?"

How was this happening? Why was he in Voldemort's dream now, when he never had been before? Had the possession triggered something? Left something behind? They'd been so close, minds wrapped around each other's more than they ever had been before...and the connection had always been there.

It seemed to grow stronger every year.

...did Voldemort think he was the one causing the warmth? Was he? Harry had no idea.

But it seemed they were both as lost on what was happening as each other, which was at least a little reassuring. In a strange sort of way.

But Harry did know that he'd had enough of feeling helpless...so he smirked.

"Wouldn't you like to know? Maybe I'm fated…" he let the implication hang. Voldemort's eyes narrowed at the mere reminder of the Prophecy. Harry felt a flicker of fear in the air, and it was absolutely intoxicating.

The sky outside the window darkened to impossible levels, with the brooding storm of the Dark Lord's mind. He could hear a wailing noise, getting louder and louder, like an air-raid siren. A warning of the turbulence in Voldemort's head.

The Orphanage began to crumble to dust around them, like the veil of the dream was slowly shredding and burning around the edges. Harry's eyes widened; the apathy vanished. In its place, in the place of the gaping darkness that Sirius had left behind when it was better not to feel anything at all, was a rush of blood curdling terror.

He scrambled back away from Voldemort, but those bloody eyes still seared through him as his vision tilted and his head began to pound.

Everything now was a wasteland, scorched and ravaged with the earth falling away beneath his hands and his feet and - it was only a dream! It was only a dream! But Harry was instinctively fighting for ground, heart pounding nauseating and electric.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, calm down!"

He lunged for Voldemort, not having much choice in the matter when everything else was being scorched away by the force of the man's mind. A visceral, self-eating insanity. Clutched hold and braced himself for pain, eyes squeezed shut, and…

The pain was there. But the longer he held on, the longer it was replaced by that sense of wholeness. He didn't understand it - but he was suddenly rather worried that fuzzy feelings were his prophecied power after all.

Sure, next time he met Voldemort outside of the bastard's head, he'd just hug him to death!

He slowly looked up, after a while.

Voldemort was staring at him again, absolutely no expression on his face at all. Harry would have checked if the ground had gone back to normal, but he couldn't quite bring himself to look away. Even if this was only a dream.

The Dark Wizard was only somewhat less terrifying mentally than he was in his physical presence.

Magic coiled around him, insidious in its darkness, seductive and ensnaring…

"You know the Prophecy then?"

Harry's mouth ran dry.  
>"...er, no. It smashed, remember?"<p>

"Such _lies_, Harry." A soft croon, and Harry stumbled back a second too late at the alarm bells going off in his own mind now. "You should know better than to lie to Lord Voldemort."

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up _please_.

He was left with his sheets soaked through with sweat, and a stinging pain in his forehead.

* * *

><p>The situation with Harry Potter was an unnerving matter, growing more and more troubling by the day.<p>

Since the Possession at the Ministry of Magic, their minds were connecting with an increasing regularity - though they had yet to sleep again at the same time. Lord Voldemort did not require a lot of sleep.

The strangest thing was the peace. The snatches of completeness, that warned him immediately of some greater and more terrifying scheme.

How could the boy who had caused him nothing but trouble be capable of, with a touch, make him feel more content and whole than he ever had in his whole life? Safe.

It was absolutely disgusting, and only reinforced the truth of the fact - that Harry Potter was an entity that both deserved and needed to be utterly destroyed. So he could never seep such poisonous dissatisfactions into him again, never make him question. Never give him that moment of lucidity, that for the first time might highlight a problem otherwise.

Of course, he flung himself into a feverish, rabid frenzy of research. Books on mental connections of every sort, trying to establish the reason for the brat's infernal power over him. On how Potter, brain soft and mushy with emotion, utterly without skill, could turn his own possession back on him as easy as breathing…

The inevitable conclusion was worse than any he could have imagined.

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore couldn't help but be concerned.<p>

A teenage boy furious and reeling from grief was a dangerous thing, and Harry Potter apathetic with the sheer intensity of his mourning was a far more lethal thing than most.

It made him...reckless and, after the events of the Ministry, caution was what they needed the most.

Something had happened there, something that had thrown Voldemort off, and the fear of thinking what Tom might have realized was overwhelming. It could ruin everything, if there was even in a chance that it was what he had been thinking for a while now.

"Is there anything you wish to tell me, m'boy?"

Harry remained blank faced where he had been summoned, listless and even aggressive in how much he 'didn't care' about what anything had to say to him. A shadow in Harry's gaze, that caught his breath in his throat.

"No, sir. Nothing."

* * *

><p>The actual physical response didn't arrive until he was back in Privet Drive.<p>

He wondered if he should be concerned that Voldemort could said anything through the Blood Wards, but considering his scar hadn't stopped prickling since that dream, and the Dark Lord hadn't arrived to murder him, he was probably okay.

The Order members outside - as if he hadn't seen them! - didn't seem particularly worried either.

Harry was exhausted. He'd largely avoided sleeping since, out of the insistent nightmares of Sirius falling through the veil and the threat of ending up in Voldemort's head again.

The days stretched endless, frustrated and burning up with the need to do something, anything. He unfolded the paper in his fingers, something tight in his throat.

_It seems the connection between us grows ever stronger, Harry Potter. Rest._

* * *

><p><span><em>AN: Bear with me, I guess? _


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, now Harry never wanted to sleep again.

Anything that Voldemort wanted him to do seemed highly suspicious, and probably not as good for his health as the seemingly harmless word of 'rest' suggested.

He did everything he could to stay awake, between squats and jumps, reading - _anything. _Seriously considered talking to the Order and saying that he shouldn't fall asleep for the good of the war effort...but he didn't want to talk to the Order.

Didn't want to see the pity in their gazes, or hear their condolences about Sirius. Didn't want to listen to them trying to cheer him up, or to tell him stories about all the good times and the pranks. It just reminded him that they were gone.

Besides, no one in the Order had seen fit to tell him anything last summer, so why the hell should he mention it now? No one had thought to tell him before about the Prophecy. Sirius had been the only one to tell him anything!

He wished he could write his Godfather for advice about all of this now. The world was not split into good people and Death Eaters, but it still seemed a crime of complicity to be in Voldemort's head.

Besides, no one had much bothered to tell him anything now either. Not anything of use, not anything that would help. Not even a bloody spell book! Not even from Ron and Hermione.

Jokes about fuzzy feelings aside, why hadn't Dumbledore tried to teach him anything? The power of love was great and all he was sure, but the ability to shoot fireballs out of his wand seemed pretty useful too.

He managed to go quite a long time without sleeping - but it inevitably caught up with him. Eyes stinging with exhaustion, barely able to see straight let alone walk straight.

When he was next conscious of being awake, and so not really being awake at all, he was in...where was he? Harry sat up, heart hammering in his chest.

Could recognize easier, now, that he was dreaming. Or at least he assumed so. He'd never been in so lovely a room in his life.

Sunshine streamed in through large French windows, that opened out to a garden. Harry wandered over to it despite himself, still dressed in the clothes he had fallen asleep in. Feet bare to feel the glide of polished wood beneath his feet, and the softness of a rug.

It was so different to the neat rows of Privet Drive, to the sheer Dursleyishness of Dudley's second bedroom, that reminded him of everything that had come before. The birthdays and holidays gone unmarked in comparison to Dudley's discarded treasures, the cupboard that had once made up his world.

This place was open, light.

"I see you like the room."

Harry's shoulders stiffened. He folded his arms, turning around instantly to face Voldemort. For someone who had been kept waiting for three days, he seemed surprisingly patient. Unnervingly so.

Harry swallowed, fists clenching at his sides again.

"Does it matter? Where are we?"

"Your room," the Dark Lord replied. "All of this is yours, if you would like."

That was the last thing Harry had expected, and his eyes narrowed slightly. Brain spinning with complete confusion.

"But you look tired, Harry," Voldemort continued, taking a step towards him. "Perhaps a drink, or a sit-down?"

"I'm in your head."

"I thought it would reassure you to have a prop. More pleasant. Less confusing for one seemingly unused to dreamscapes and mental navigations."

"And why," Harry gritted his teeth, "would you ever be interested in making things _pleasant _for me? You hate me. You've been trying to kill me for years!"

Voldemort's expression remained alarmingly blank, unreadable.

"Circumstances can change. Consider this Lord Voldemort's attempt to be...generous." Harry backed up as the Dark Wizard moved towards him across the room, half expecting the illusion of this beautiful room to shatter to something terrible again.

"You're not known for being generous towards me either," Harry snapped. "Stay back."

...Voldemort completely ignored him, continuing a relentless approach until Harry's back was pressed against the large glass doors. Which, just for reference, were locked. Typical that Voldemort had locks in his head.

Harry nearly squeezed his eyes shut, like a child hoping the nightmare would be over when he opened them. Breath quick in his throat, as much as he was loathe to show any fear towards the bastard.

Who could help falling asleep, when they weren't even allowed to use magic? And the letter had burned, so he couldn't even prove any legitimate threat. He nearly jumped out of his skin when pale, spidery fingers stroked through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead and the eternally damned scar.

Worst of all, he could feel that bewildering warmth again. Spreading, when he concentrated on it, from the point of contact to all the nerve endings in his body. His mouth had gone completely dry.

The ache in his chest faded once more, and all the hurts and troubles of waking receded to the back of his head. Not gone, but soothed from their rawness. Now, Harry was forcing his eyes not to flutter closed.

"Lord Voldemort's generosity is this, Harry Potter…" such a soft voice, for such a dangerous monster. "Come to me, and I will spare you. You will live here, and you will want for nothing. No one will need to die protecting you, no more shields for the Boy Who Lived," Voldemort murmured. "But, if you refuse…" their gazes locked, and Harry could barely hear a thing except the ringing of his ears. Feel the press of fingers against his jaw. "Every being that tries to keep you from me will die. I will cut down everyone you love without mercy or hesitation, and your room will be a cage you barely have room to stand in."

Harry stared at him, bile clawing its way up his throat. So at odds with the pleasantness of the touch, that smoothed so tenderly along his scalp and his skin. He knew, this time, that Voldemort was using it deliberately.

Making it difficult to think, when all Harry wanted to do was never stop feeling this complete. The rage burned hot in his belly.

"You seriously think I will just surrender myself to you?" he replied.

Voldemort was lying, obviously, he had to be. Not about his threat, but at the fact that it would be any different if Harry quietly turned himself over to the Dark Lord's hands. Lord Voldemort had no generosity, and no mercy, and if he did Harry very much doubted it would be for him.

He didn't know what was going on, but he figured anything Voldemort said or wanted from him was suspect. Even if Harry's eyes currently wanted to roll back in his head with that peculiar bliss and there was nowhere for him to go to escape the onslaught of peacefulness.

"I would advise you think about this carefully," Voldemort said. "Lord Voldemort does not offer second chances."

"Why are you doing this?" Harry asked instead, chin jutting up. "You want me dead, why would you offer to spare me? What the hell do you mean 'circumstances have changed?'"

Mere possession, or failed possession, couldn't do that, surely? There had to be more going on here. If anything, Voldemort's immediate response suggested his ability to see inside the Dark Lord's head was further cause for his murder, not something to prevent it. Voldemort didn't _want _him in his dreams…

The warmth? Voldemort didn't seem to much want that either.

"If you continue to defy me, I will perform the worst torments imaginable in your name," a hint of impatience in Voldemort's tone now. The caressing grip tightened, and Harry could feel the first splinters of pain in his head again.

"And there was me thinking Lord Voldemort was too proud to do anything in anyone's name but his own," Harry snapped, before he could entirely help himself.

"And perhaps you are not as much of a hero as you would like everyone to believe, if you would see your loved ones suffer because of your foolishness," the Dark Lord said. He spat even the word 'loved' out like it was a curse upon the world. "But then...you did take to the Dark Arts of my dominion rather well. We are much alike, my treasure. Lord Voldemort can see that now."

That was the last thing Harry wanted to hear. He didn't want there to be any similarity between them, though since second year with Tom Riddle's words, they'd been increasingly evident.

Choices...it was choices that defined them. Torturing Bellatrix was not the same! She deserved it! She killed Sirius!

"Your _treasure_?" Harry almost wanted to laugh, for the first time since Sirius fell. Laugh in some terrible, hysterical way. Maybe insanity really was contagious. "I'm not your treasure, I never asked to be a hero, and you would kill everyone I cared about even if I did come to you."

He shoved Voldemort back, hard - and the lovely room was wobbling around them again. An unstable dream, though he had no idea which one of them was shifting it now.

But the space, the open space that Harry so yearned for, was closing in and darkening – glass turning to dusty and cobwebbed walls.

"I came at your command at the Ministry," Harry hissed, stepping closer without thinking. "And people ended up dead."

Either way he did it, no matter how hard he tried, or cared, it felt like he couldn't win. The more he tried, the more it _hurt. _He just wanted it to stop hurting.

Voldemort's head tilted, reptilian in his consideration. Harry's face was flushed, a direct contrast to that white face like stone, cold and implacable. Harry hated it. Could feel the blood rushing through him, boiling, always just beneath the surface.

He wanted to shatter that look of condescending disdain, to stop the threats and have the power not to be affected by them. To know he could protect the people he wanted to. To watch Voldemort bleed and be the one hurt instead, to watch that composure be torn apart just like the man's dreams were.

The spell whispered at the corners of his mind - _Crucio. _To externalize the pain in his guts to something outside of it, to shove it on the wizard who really deserved it. Whose fault it was.

Those eyes burned him, far too knowing of such dark desires.

"**I always get what is mine, Harry Potter. I suggest you plead mercy whilst you still can – you have two weeks.**"

This time, Voldemort was the one that vanished…and the beautiful illusion crumpled away with him. Harry was left in a cold, sluggish darkness, struggling for the surface.

* * *

><p>"Harry! Potter – for god's sake!"<p>

Harry gasped awake, blinking blearily, glasses smushed on his face still. Moody was grizzled above him, fingers on his arm like a steel trap, shaking him.

Harry scrambled back immediately. His shirt was once more soaked through with sweat and…blood. He wiped it off his face, sticky. Forehead throbbing with pain, the scar still weeping.

He expected to hit his headboard, but…he was outside. When the hell did he get outside?

The grass was wet with dew beneath his fingers.

"What happened?"

"We intended to ask that of you," Moody growled. The electric blue eye seemed to pick at his soul.

"You were…sleepwalking," Tonks said. Though her tone of voice suggested far more than that, but then, so probably did the blood on his face. "Hissing. Like a snake."

Hissing. Harry's insides twisting.

He couldn't decide if the pity in their eyes had been worse, or this. Harry swallowed, mind racing.

"Well?" Moody demanded. "What's going on, boy?"

_I'm having dreams of Lord Voldemort. _

_I was just having a chat with our friendly neighbourhood Dark Lord._

_He wants me to go to him. He says that I'm his. I don't think he plans to kill me anymore._

"I think Voldemort's planning on attacking the Blood Wards."

And every inch of Harry was suddenly straining to leave them.

* * *

><p><span><em>AN: Happy New Year's! :) x Hope you all have a great one. Bold is parseltongue, for reference. Thank you for your continued interest in the story!_


	4. Chapter 4

Dumbledore arrived at Privet Drive the next morning.

In his fifth year, that may have been something Harry wanted more than anything. The acknowledgement, the involvement and the sense of things happening. The opportunity, no doubt, to leave the Dursleys as - in light of Voldemort's potential attack - the Order were implementing an emergency evacuation.

He'd been packed for hours already, and now sat restless, waiting. Trying to phrase his demands for answers in the most convincing way possible in his head.

Was still up like a shot when he saw Dumbledore, tall and billowing in his cloak, walking up the neat garden path. It seemed all too surreal. Harry sprinted down the stairs, to the dubious looks his relatives were giving him.

"Ah good evening, Harry," the Headmaster greeted pleasantly upon spotting him, having already disarmingly made his way into the building despite Uncle Vernon's blustering about this whole 'nonsense of a situation' and 'this is my home, sir'."Don't worry, we will be departing soon. There are simply some matters that need to be discussed first."

Uncle Vernon's protests on the matter were once more dismissed, but Harry's attention was more concerned on the glimpse he'd got of Dumbledore's hand. Black, shriveled..

"Sir-" he began.

"Later, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Please sit down."

Harry's hands flexed impatiently at his sides, not really wanting to linger or do anything of the sort.

"I thought I was moving to a safe house? Can't I just stay at Headquarters?"

"That is one of many things we need to discuss," the man said. Just waiting for him, staring him down with expectant blue eyes until Harry reluctantly lowered himself onto the armchair. The Headmaster waved a wand, conjuring two mugs of honey mead for them to sip on with a smile.

Harry clutched hold of his, still studying Dumbledore. At least they agreed that they had a lot to talk about.

"Voldemort knows something," he said, before the headmaster could speak. "So do you. What more is there that you aren't telling me?" He'd thought, with the prophecy, that all the life-changing revelations were out of the way, but...if the prophecy sparked Voldemort to want to kill him, what was making him do the opposite now?

Dumbledore remained silent for a moment, the twinkle leaving his eye.

"It is only a theory, one that I have yet to fully conclude," the headmaster said eventually.

"What's the theory?" Harry asked. He could see Dumbledore hesitating again, or at the very least weighing up his words and actions oh so carefully. Harry felt a flash of rage shoot up his spine, palms tingling. "Tell me. I need to know or - or I'll do something stupid again. Like going after the Prophecy. People will die. I need to know."

Dumbledore gave a rather tired sigh, settling his own glass of mead barely sipped against a robed knee.

"In this world, there exists many different forms of magic. Some light, some dark. Some good, some terrible. The most powerful of magics inevitably leave behind...traces." Those blue eyes almost seemed to stare straight through him. "A mother's protection, for example, left a trace upon your skin that once meant Voldemort could not touch you. It responds to him still, which is why I believe you may be in pain when he touches you."

Harry's brow furrowed. Why would something made to protect him, hurt him? Shouldn't it have only hurt Voldemort in that case? Shouldn't it - well. Was that what caused that feeling of warmth? Love? But why would Voldemort feel it? None of that made any sense!

"I'm not sure I understand, Professor," he said tightly.

"You have been in conversation with Voldemort, haven't you, Harry?" Dumbledore questioned, leaning forwards now. "What did he say to you?"

Harry's jaw clenched, fingers flexing around his glass.

"I thought you didn't want me in Voldemort's head. That's why you made me take Occlumency lessons."

"It is dangerous for you to be exposed to Voldemort's mind, yes," Dumbledore agreed. "I dare say the events of the last term proved that." Harry flinched, even if Dumbledore's tone remained soft, kind. "But you have entered his head. He possessed you at the Ministry, too. Something happened."

If Dumbledore knew that, why hadn't he pressed the matter earlier?

The Headmaster seemed to catch something in his expression. "I hoped you would come to talk to me about it yourself, m'boy. That you would trust me to help you."

"I didn't realize you had any desire to talk to me, Professor." It slipped out before he could entirely help it, as unwelcome as vomit. The accusations of the year before, of how the man had ignored him then, when he needed help most. "Considering it's a danger that I am exposed to Voldemort's mind."

Dumbledore remained infuriatingly calm. Waiting again, expectant. Harry wanted to throw something again, wanted to - no. He shouldn't think about that. It reminded him far too much of that look of dark knowing in Voldemort's eyes.

"Voldemort...he told me to come to him," Harry relented. "Or he would come for me. I'm not sure he wants to kill me anymore." He was watching close enough to see something spark in Dumbledore's eyes, just for a second. Nearly pounced on his feet. "You know why!"

"As I said, I only have an old man's theories-" the Headmaster began.

"To do with magic leaving traces." Was Harry supposed to understand by now? He felt like an idiot. Was that warm feeling really his mother's love?

"I once told you that you can speak Parseltongue because there is a possibility that Voldemort gave you some of his powers when he tried to kill you, all those years ago," Dumbledore said. Harry felt a prickle of dread down his spine.

Not his mother's traces then.

"He...left something in me? In trying to kill me?" The killing curse was powerful dark magic, wasn't it? "What?"

Dumbledore took another sip of his mead, as Harry's heart hammered.

"A part of his soul."

Someone dropped a glacier in his stomach.

* * *

><p>"What do we do?" Harry's voice cracked. "He's - he's immortal!"<p>

A conversation about Horcruxes did not seem right for the pastel tediosity and floral patterns of Number 4 Privet Drive, haven of all things mundane and non-magical.

"We will explore this further, I promise you, Harry." Dumbledore looked more serious than Harry had ever seen him. "But you must understand now, why you absolutely cannot go to him. No matter the cost. If you do...between the prophecy and this, I fear we would leave the fate of this world to dust."

"He's going to kill people." Harry's ears were ringing. "Because of me."

"And what type of world would they be living in, if you went to him and he won?"

Hermione and others like her probably were better off dead than living in a world under Voldemort's reign, but Harry still felt like something had rotted in his stomach.

Was that why he felt a sense of warm completeness? It wasn't him - it was - the soul piece. The Horcrux. Craving for wholeness, joyful for contact. He swallowed, thickly. Remained rather glad that he hadn't told Dumbledore about that bit. Even now, it seemed too intimate a thing, embarrassing. How ridiculous to feel like that at the mere touch of his worst nightmare.

.

"Am I...I'm not the only one of them, am I?" It would almost be easier if he was. He remembered his second year with a vivid nausea. "You mentioned the Diary...a different type of magic than what you'd seen before. There could be thousands! They could be anything!"

"I'm glad you appreciate the enormity of the task ahead of us." Dumbledore smiled gently. "But I doubt even Lord Voldemort could split his soul that many times. It would cause...too much instability."

That insanity like a flesh-eating virus. Harry shuddered.

"Can they be destroyed, the horcruxes?" It was only once he asked the question, that the enormity of it sank in. He was a Horcrux. He was keeping Voldemort immortal.

And either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live whilst the other survives...

Harry squared his shoulders, head spinning. Bile caught in his throat.

"It will be difficult," Dumbledore said. "But it can be done."

"…I won't let you down, sir."

* * *

><p>The Burrow seemed different in the light of his knowledge. Its ramshackle cheery homeliness seemed somehow diminished, perhaps partially in the possibility of it all shattering. What if Voldemort attacked them? It was the obvious place to look. <p>

And, with Sirius' will and the summoning of Kreacher, they had managed to establish that Grimmauld Place was still useable as the Order's Headquarters. So why on earth was he at the Burrow? Dumbledore had just dropped him here, despite all of his protests on the matter. Said that he would be in touch throughout the summer. 

Harry was trying to remember how to breathe.

Dumbledore had said it was okay to talk to Ron and Hermione about what they'd discussed, that he should keep them close because he would need his friends before the end, but…

Harry traipsed into the Weasley home in a gloomy silence.

"Harry!" Mrs Weasley ushered him into a hug, warm and smelling of flour, before she held him at arms length to examine him properly. "Oh, you're just like Ron. Both of you look like you've had stretching jinxes put on you. Are you hungry? Have they been feeding you enough?"

Harry shook his head, unable to stomach the thought of food right now. He could feel Mrs Weasley studying him.

"I'll just make something simple. Some nice bread and butter...you should eat something, dear."  
>There it was. The pity in her eyes.<p>

Harry watched the loaf of bread slice itself onto his plate. Looked anywhere but her - pausing on the clock. All hands pointed at mortal peril. What little appetite he could have possibly have, plummeted.

"I'm sorry about this," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" Mrs Weasley looked confused.

"I told Dumbledore I was fine to stay at Headquarters. It's not - Voldemort-" Harry grimaced as Mrs Weasley winced at the name. Still, she seemed to gather where he'd been about to go, and shook her head.

"Nonsense. We're happy to have you, Harry. Dumbledore and the Order have all put their best protections on the house, you'll be perfectly safe here."

But it wasn't himself that he was worried for.

What of Mr Weasley, at work or on his commute? What of Fred and George, who Ron said in his last letter were successfully running a shop in Diagon Alley? What of any of them? If Dumbledore was right, and Voldemort had truly realized what he was, then there was going to be absolutely nothing that could deter the Dark Wizard.

Nothing except Harry going to him - and Dumbledore had warned him against that ten different times already. He knew the man was right, but that didn't make it seem any less like his intestines were being wrung out like dishcloths.

"Harry," she sighed, settling on a chair next to him. "You are not, and you never will be responsible for his – for Y– for V-V-Voldemort's actions"

It was the fact that she said the name, more than anything, that made him look up. The sadness was still there, such dreadful sadness like she thought he was sickening for something. But there was steel there too. Something hard, and unbroken. Fierce.

He tucked into his bread and butter and dreaded falling asleep.

* * *

><p>The room was dark. Intimately familiar in its darkness, in the cobwebs and the light streaming in through the grating on the door.<p>

He was a child again in an instant. Dust in his nose, knowing nothing else, hunger ravaging his insides and cold seeping into his bones as he huddled against the bed. But not a child anymore, stooped to avoid brushing his head on the ceiling, fingers pressed against the door.

"Where we we?"

This time, it was Voldemort who asked the question. Harry closed his eyes and willed uselessly to wake up again.

"You said I had two weeks," he said. "Why are you here?"

The silence stretched, and Harry turned. There were only inches between them, couldn't possibly be more. The Dark Lord, pale and serpentine like the monster from a children's book, looked absurd squashed onto the ratty cot of his former bed.

Voldemort watched him silently, head tilted to one side. Harry wasn't sure what to think about the lack of gloating, the lack of sneer on that lipless mouth.

"Where are we?" the Dark Lord demanded again, even softer now. Too tall to even stand.

"The cupboard under the stairs."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed at his response, gaze tracing over the broken tin soldiers on the tattered shelves. The junk stored at the foot of the bed, the spiders that lurked in the corners. The signs of life, of…

"And you defend muggles?" Now that sneer was there. Cruel around the edges. Harry looked away again.

"Why are you here?" he asked again, in turn.

"Dreams are funny things. It's difficult to control them when you are in them."

Did that mean...Voldemort wasn't here on purpose? That he was being dragged into the orbit of Harry's mind as easily as Harry was dragged into Voldemort's? Like how Harry had ended up in the Orphanage?

The room last time, that lovely room, had been controlled - reflecting Voldemort's point. It was where Voldemort had wanted them to be, what he had wanted Harry to see. But he very much doubted the Dark Wizard had wanted him to see the orphanage, from what little Harry knew about him. The reaction to even the mere flash of it at the Ministry told him that.

Just like Harry didn't want him to see this. He swallowed.

"You could tell Lord Voldemort where to find them," Voldemort said, quietly. Harry's fists clenched all over again. Too many revelations swimming in his head, too much happening in the last twenty four hours. He couldn't deal with this right now, didn't want to.

He tried the door - locked, of course. Trapped in the bloody closet with Lord Voldemort, the universe must be playing some horrible joke on him!

"Interesting thing, dreams," Voldemort remarked, next. "Some people believe they symbolize what our minds are working through."

"I'm not trapped in the closet!" Harry snapped, before he could help himself. Colouring.

"Considering this seems to be a physical location you spent an unfortunate amount of time in, I dare say that the analogy refers more to your childhood than your sexuality explicitly. Perhaps even a marker of any situation you feel trapped in-"

"Yes, thank you for that opinion I didn't ask for." Harry gritted his teeth. "Maybe you'd like me to comment on your dreams and memories next time I'm in your head? No? Shut up."

Voldemort's lips curled.

"I imagine fate and prophecy would leave someone in a difficult position, judging from past experience on the matter. Care to share?"

Harry was rather proud of the depth of loathing he was able to put into a single look. That spell, that hatred, whispered once again in the corners of his mind. His fingers twitched. He wondered if that hatred was his own, or some poison spreading through him via their connection. By the piece of soul nestled against his own.

"No. Leave."

"You are the one who has locked the door, Potter. Not Lord Voldemort."

Harry glanced over again at that, eyes flashing. Yanked at the door again instead, hissed out Alohomora. Nothing. Voldemort gave a long-suffering sigh that Harry didn't think he had any right to.

This was insane! In the middle of everything, of that ultimatum and the war, it was beyond ridiculous that they should be stuck here like this. Harry swore, kicking the door next. Anything to break the cupboard door open. He wasn't a child anymore! The flimsy wood should have been easy!

"Pathetic." Voldemort's voice was cold. "You are a mess. A putrid, overspilling puddle of uncontrolled emotion and hormonal desires."

Harry concentrated on his breathing.

"You do it then!" he snarled.

"This is not my dream."

"Didn't stop you intruding on all of mine before." Harry's breathing caught livid in his throat. "Didn't stop you luring me to get your stupid prophecy with visions of my godfather dying!"

He could hear footsteps approaching, pounding loud. Impossibly loud outside the door. Voldemort's head tilted the other way.

"This happened before," the Dark Wizard said. "In your room. Do you remember? The room began to close in, the walls growing dusty like these, with cobwebs like these-"

"Stop it!" Harry hissed. Voldemort continued to merely stare at him, merciless.

"As I said, dream analysis in the magical world is rather more curious than its muggle counterpart. You feel trapped, so your mind is reminding you of a cage. Of a situation you feel trapped by."

Voldemort must wish to leave as much as he did, to actually be telling him this. In a...shockingly sane voice, actually, now that Harry thought about it. Maybe he found a grounding amusement in Harry's suffering.

"Who is outside the door, Potter?"

"I said stop it!" Voldemort was the last person he wanted to talk to, about any of this! What was even the point? There was a high chance he was never going to see the Dursleys again, anyway, with everything that was happening.

"Boy!" roared outside the cupboard. "Open this door! I know you're in there-" Harry wanted to shrivel into the floorboards with the way the Dark Lord was looking at him. How was this fair? How was it fair that his worst enemy should be the one to see this? How was any of it fair that-warmth.

Harry's eyes snapped open. There was no expression on Voldemort's face, and nothing in particular to the touch on his arm. It was nothing like the last dream, where the Dark Lord crowded him, smoothing hair back from his forehead and whispering promises in his head.

It was...clinical, but the warmth and completeness spreading through him was anything but. He felt himself calming, automatically. Even if that was the last thing that should have been happening right then. The sound of Uncle Vernon yelling began to fade.

"No magical child should ever have to be afraid of the muggles they live with. They do not deserve us."

The comment lingered even after he woke up, blood smeared across his face, and trying to get to the door of Fred and George's room.

"Good to see you too, mate," Ron said, one arm still wrapped tight around his torso - having apparently stopped him. Had Mad Eye and Tonks mentioned this had happened last time, for them to keep an eye on him?

Harry felt his knees give out, felt his body slowly drain cold again from that warmth.

Maybe he should start those Occlumency lessons again.


	5. Chapter 5

"I feared this might happen," Dumbledore said.

Harry sat in an awkward centre of the circle. It was all the inclusion with the Order and their meetings that he'd once wanted, and all entirely wrong. No Sirius grinning at him, no sense of fighting Voldemort and really doing something. More the sense of being some troublesome burden, or trick pony. Everyone looked so very concerned. His hands twisted in his lap.

"You think Voldemort is possessing me through the connection?" Harry said. "To get me to come to him?"

It was an easy enough conclusion to come to, seeing as Harry wasn't conscious of moving himself and his scar was bleeding after the dreams. He'd just assumed Dumbledore had already come to it, and ignored the matter seeing as Mad Eye and Tonks must have told him about it.

"There must be something we can do," Mrs Weasley said.

"We need to move him somewhere more secure," Mad-Eye suggested. "If the Dark Lord is possessing the boy…" There was that look on the ex-Auror's face again, like the one Harry had woken up to at Privet Drive.

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to bore into his skull. If Harry didn't already know what Legilimency felt like, he would have been sure the headmaster was peering right into his soul.

The dreams flashed through his mind. The clinical touch, the flares of the warmth, the falling into each other's fears and weaknesses like black hole orbits. Dumbledore must have seen something in his expression, because he leaned forward. Remus' brow furrowed with concern, as he watched Harry too.

Was that what being possessed felt like? It was very different to what Ginny had described last Christmas. The blackness, the not remembering a thing. Ginny had never mentioned anything about dreaming of Tom Riddle, though maybe that would have been something she felt too uncomfortable to bring up. Maybe it wasn't.

"It doesn't feel like it did at the Ministry," he said. "I know when I'm being possessed."

"Do you really?" Snape muttered. Harry glared at him, fists clenching at his sides.

"No matter the mark on your arm, considering the amount of time I've spent in the bastard's head, I think I know more about Voldemort than you do!" he snapped.

Snape's eyes flashed, lips pressing thin and bloodless.  
>"You arrogant little-"<p>

"-What does it feel like, Harry?" That was Dumbledore again. "If it feels different to the Ministry. Does anything unusual occur in your dreams?"

And now Harry was thinking about those dreams again. Scarlet eyes searing into him, and seeing more than Harry would have ever wanted anyone to see. A touch of colour appeared on his cheeks.

"Harry?" Remus laid a hand on his arm. "It's alright. You can tell us."

It didn't seem alright. It seemed a far too embarrassing thing, and he had no idea how to broach the topic. Didn't really want to talk about it at all, when to talk about it meant to admit to far too many things.

It might have actually been easier to tell them that Voldemort tortured him unrelenting crucios, then to admit that he...really wasn't doing that at all.

"Oh, uh, nothing too unusual," Harry said. "It's not like when the snake attacked Mrs Weasley either."

"Any time you want to answer the Headmaster's question on what it was actually like…" Severus sneered. Harry's fingers twitched against his wand, and infuriatingly Snape's expression only seemed to mock him further at the movement. Harry gritted his teeth, looking back at Dumbledore again.

"Memories," he said. That seemed an okay thing to talk about. "I get drawn into his memories. Or...he into mine. Into his dreams."

"Can you tell what his next move is?" Mad Eye asked.

Harry could guess, by the ultimatum. At least in so far as Voldemort's plans for him specifically. Dumbledore's eyes were gleaming.

"I can't imagine You-Know-Who would want Harry in his head like that," Tonks said, chewing her lip. Hair shifting colours as she thought. "Why isn't he blocking Harry out?" She looked to Dumbledore.

"I don't think he can," Harry said.

"Yes, obviously one of the most powerful Legilimens in Britain is thwarted by the mental incompetence of a-" Snape began.

"Because surviving a killing curse is completely normal too, right?" Harry didn't give the Potion's Master time to finish his latest no doubt flattering commentary on the matter. "Nothing with me and Voldemort is normal. A week ago, I would have sworn that the only thing he wanted from me was to dance on my mutilated corpse, so I guess we'll both have to deal with the shock of it."

There was a tense silence, which only Dumbledore seemed unaffected by.

"It might be possible that Voldemort is actively allowing you to see these...dreams," the Headmaster said. "In an effort to endear himself to you, and thus make you more susceptible to him."

"As if he could ever endear himself to me!" Harry said. "He killed my parents. He's spent most of my life trying to kill me!" And yet, the conversation from the night before popped relentlessly into his head.

No magical child should ever have to be afraid of the muggles they live with. They do not deserve us.

And that touch…

Harry swallowed, shaking his head. Surely Voldemort hadn't been manipulating the dreams and controlling them from the start? He'd definitely not wanted Harry there with the Orphanage! Or had that been a trick to? Had he been fooled again, just like with the visions of Sirius and the Prophecy all summer?

Harry's insides twisted.

"He's a monster," Harry continued, quieter, glaring at his knees now. Loathing his own uncertainty. "Even if he tries, I'll always remember that."

"We can't do nothing!" Mrs Weasley burst out again, to vehement nods of agreement. "The poor boy shouldn't have to deal with this!"

"We won't be doing nothing," Dumbledore said. "The Burrow has been given all the best protection and wards we can give it, Harry will not be successfully going to Voldemort regardless of his attempts, in his sleep or otherwise-"

"It's not that I'm worried about," Mad Eye interrupted, blue eye whizzing to fix on Harry as he continued to look at Dumbledore otherwise. Harry was surprised that even the ex-Auror dared to interrupt the Headmaster. "If the Dark Lord is possessing him, or in his head, he could be listening right now. How would any of us know? He could turn at any second!"

Mrs Weasley paled a little.

"Harry would never harm-" Mr Weasley began.

"We're not just dealing with Potter," Mad-eye said. "Constant Vigilance! It is foolish to let the boy roam unchecked. He should be monitored, seeing as he can't control the connection in his head."

Harry's heart was hammering.

Even the comment about the wards had his stomach rolling - it sounded far too much like another pretty sort of cage just like Voldemort was offering!

But surely he wasn't a danger, like that, was he? They'd established that during his fifth year Christmas, hadn't they? He wasn't Voldemort's weapon. Voldemort had been searching for the prophecy all that time…

Harry couldn't breathe.

Remus gave his arm another squeeze.

Worst of all, Harry was now doubting if he could protest with absolute certainty that he wasn't a threat to the people around him. He was more than just in danger of possession, he already had a constant part of Voldemort's soul in him! He shuddered.

"I don't believe we need to go to such extreme measures," Dumbledore said. Harry's eyes snapped to him, swallowing thickly. Exhaling a breath.

"You said you feared this might happen." Snape, apparently, couldn't quite help himself.

"If I could speak to Harry alone for a moment…"

People left with reluctance. Harry felt he should be honoured to be in Dumbledore's confidence, but could no longer let it warm him like it had before. Not when he was aware of how much the Headmaster had kept from him, and had apparently had no intentions of telling him if the circumstances hadn't so drastically changed.

"Sir?"

"I do not believe this is Voldemort's doing, exactly," Dumbledore said.

"...but my scar started bleeding." Harry's fists clenched. If it wasn't Voldemort... "You don't think it was the Horcrux, do you?"

"I do," Dumbledore said. "Not actively, you must understand. At least not currently. But after feeling the closeness of your souls during the possession, it is only natural that the shard would want to connect to the rest of itself. The soul is not intended to be split, it is a most obscene brand of magic. Voldemort did a great deal of damage to himself when he chose that path, even if he doesn't know it yet."

Was that the warmth? The soul piece recognizing its original? But Voldemort had touched him before, and there had only ever been the pain. None of that blessed warmth, as much as he could believe the two were connected given the sense of completeness. Harry wetted his lips.

"Will you teach me Occlumency?" He got straight to the point. "Snape was rubbish."

"Professor Snape," Dumbledore corrected gently. "And it would be my wish that you take private lessons with me throughout the year."

Harry lit up, not having expected the Headmaster to agree.  
>"Really?"<p>

Dumbledore nodded, studying him.  
>"I also wish for you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all times from this moment onward. Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you understand me?"<p>

Harry nodded.

"Yes sir. Of course."

"And perhaps you would be willing to further indulge me, by joining me on an errand tomorrow," Dumbledore said.

It would be wrong of Harry to smile, but this was more like it! Doing stuff just like he'd wanted. And with Dumbledore of all people! He nodded again, quickly.

"Yes sir! What are we doing?" It probably wasn't appropriate to be excited, but surely it was something to do with horcruxes? Maybe Dumbledore had found something since the last time they'd talked? If Voldemort was arrogant enough to assume only he knew his own secrets?

"We will be talking to a man who I believe to be of utmost importance in our mission," Dumbledore said. Harry nodded eagerly once more. The uneasiness from earlier had, to some extent, deflated. If Dumbledore trusted him and wasn't worried, then things couldn't truly be so bad as they seemed, could they?

Clearly he'd just let Voldemort shake him up a bit too much, trying to deal with the bastard invading his sleep all the time.

Dumbledore eventually took his leave, as more guests began to arrive.

* * *

><p>Hermione and Fleur were now at the Burrow too- much to Ginny and Mrs Weasley's disdain on the latter - though Harry was pleased about both.<p>

In the privacy of Ron's room, he'd snatched time to tell both Ron and Hermione about the Prophecy just as Dumbledore suggested. He told them about Horcruxes too.

He just failed to mention that he happened to be one of them.

But really, what good would telling them do anyway? They wouldn't let him...they would be against some of the solutions to the problem. The most obvious solution. How could he count them to help like Dumbledore wanted then? And he didn't want to see them look at him like that - and he especially didn't want to risk them looking at him like he was the devil incarnate either.

He didn't much like to think about the soul shard nestled somewhere against his on himself, so talking about it would make it worse. He could...deal with it. Just not if he had to actually talk about it, to someone other than Dumbledore. That just seemed to make it all seem far too real. Besides, they would only worry.

That night, there were no dreams.

* * *

><p>Considering everything, considering Dumbledore told him to keep his wand at the ready and had implied that they were talking to somebody important, Harry's chest was currently crushed with disappointment.<p>

Horace Slughorn was a corpulent, walrus-mustached lump of a man straining in fine clothing - and apparently they were here for a teaching post.

How could Dumbledore be thinking about the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher now?! What did it matter when at any moment Voldemort might draw all of his Horcruxes to him. What did it matter when their enemy was immortal!

Why did he even need Harry to recruit his teachers for him?

Harry's blood was pounding. He stayed stubbornly silent in the chair he'd been gestured to, as Dumbledore and Slughorn exchanged words. The only thing that got a peep out of him was the comment about Umbridge - because his hatred for her would probably never change. Slughorn's eyes hadn't left him once since they found him.

The realization that Slughorn had been moving about and fleeing Death Eaters mollified him only the barest fraction. Surely that meant something?

And then the Headmaster abandoned him.

Harry stared about the cluttered room, doing his best to ignore the prominent eyes still fixed upon his person. The scrutiny was nothing compared to a certain Dark Lord's.

"Don't think I don't know why he brought you." Slughorn broke the silence first.

"Why has he brought me?" Despite the fact that Harry was honestly lost on the matter, Slughorn merely huffed.

"You look very much like your father," Slughorn said next. Harry concentrated on staying as expressionless as possible, giving no response to that. Nor to the familiar comment about his mother's eyes. By the time Slughorn had talked about Lily Evans being his favourite student, without Harry making a sound, something had shifted in the man's expression.

He talked next about his ex-students, perhaps attempting to push through Harry's silence. That got Harry's attention, mostly because if he was being sent all of these gifts, then he couldn't even be that important to Voldemort because the Dark Wizard would have already found him and killed him with such an obvious trail to follow. Which meant all of this was even more useless! And Slughorn's happiness at the seeming popularity this implied only irritated Harry more.

"Amazing that the Death Eaters haven't found you yet," he said. "If people are sending you all of these gifts. Or was it Dumbledore you were avoiding?"

The smile slid off Slughorn's face.

"No - of course not - I have been regrettably out of touch for the past year." The man's shoulders drew back, before he smiled again. "Merely an old teacher's reminisces in dark times, I'm afraid…still, the prudent wizard keeps his head down-?"

"-Must be nice to have that option," Harry said. "Keeping your head down."  
>Slughorn's watery gaze seemed to sharpen, head tilting.<p>

"Of course...of course. It must be very difficult for you, m'boy."

"You seem like you've taught a lot of influential students," Harry plunged on. "You must be a really good teacher."

"Well-" Slughorn smiled again.

"Did you ever teach Voldemort?"

The smile was gone again, and Slughorn flinched and squawked at the name. Looked away from him now, for the first time.

"I wouldn't-"

"He would have gone by the name Tom Riddle." It was stupid, and desperate, but they came here for information, didn't they?

"As you said," Slughorn said. "I've had a lot of students-"

"Tom's memorable," Harry said. "Not really the forgettable type. About fifty years ago, dark hair, handsome bloke. Genius orphan."

"I think you should leave."

Dumbledore would no doubt be furious. Harry stood, studying Slughorn flatly. Forced a smile, after a moment, feeling like his very bones were itching.

"I'd just like to know more about him," he said, softer this time. "He killed my parents."

Dumbledore walked back in, eyes moving between the two of them. Harry could see no visible change of expression on his face.

"Harry, I do believe we've trespassed upon Horace's hospitality long enough. I think it's time we take our leave." The Headmaster turned to Slughorn. "It really would have been an honour to be able to convince you to leave retirement, but I know a lost cause when I see one. A shame...Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to. You are one of a kind, my good man. Just like Mr Potter here. Well, come along."

Harry resisted the urge to grit his teeth. They were giving up, just like that? Dumbledore's uninjured hand landed firmly on his shoulder, turning him around and guiding him towards the door.

It was only what respect he had for the Headmaster and his wisdom that had Harry biting his tongue, for while they were in Slughorn's company at least.

He was fuming down the driveway, when the front door burst open behind them.

"Alright, alright!" Slughorn said. "I'll do it. But I want a pay rise, Dumbledore!"

Harry blinked. Dumbledore smiled.

"Wonderful," the old man said.

It still didn't make Harry feel better.

"What did you think of Horace - or, as we must call him now, Professor Slughorn?" Dumbledore asked, once they were outside of the Burrow again.

"I'm not sure how he's useful to us, sir. I thought we'd be-" he stopped himself. Swallowed bile. "Why did you need me there, sir?"

Dumbledore studied him.  
>"Professor Slughorn...and I do not say this to sway your opinion on the fellow in anyway...has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office."<p>

Harry didn't think he liked the sound of the man at all, but the reason Dumbledore brought him along suddenly seemed depressingly clear. Harry's fists clenched.

"I'm the bait," he said. "You think he'd want to collect me."

One of a kind...just like Mr Potter.

He wasn't there to help Dumbledore, not really. It was all exactly the same as it was before, despite everything! Knowing nothing until after. Being the Boy Who Lived and the trophy that everybody wanted to be able to lift up. It wasn't about him at all, not really. He was just the object, the tool to be used.

Dumbledore's weapon and Voldemort's Horcrux. The universe was playing a sick joke on him.

"I think he will try," Dumbledore allowed. "You would be the jewel of his collection, Harry."

"I'd be the jewel of Voldemort's too."

Dumbledore was silent.

* * *

><p>The days passed confined to the Weasley's back garden, playing two-a-side Quidditch and awaiting news of murders and disappearances.<p>

From what Harry had gathered, there were less of these than the Order expected.

Harry's mind was racing. He kept trying to think of possible Horcruxes - but he hadn't been entirely lying to Slughorn. He needed to know more about Voldemort to be able to guess his actions.

To be able to predict him, like Voldemort so clearly knew how to push his buttons.

Know thy enemy.

And if Slughorn offered even the chance of that…

He wrote the man a letter on the third day.

If people were going to collect him anyway, and view him as some prize to be won or captured, then he may as well use that. Make it his, rather than theirs.

_Dear Professor Slughorn,_

_I'm sorry for my bluntness the other day. You've probably heard of the death of my godfather, Sirius Black, and obviously you are aware that Voldemort has returned to power. I wasn't really in the best state of mind when we met, so I'd like to apologize for any offence I caused. I look forward to your classes at Hogwarts, and any advice you can give me._

_Harry Potter._

It turned Harry's stomach, just a little bit, but...well. Defeating Voldemort was more important. Voldemort had whole armies at his commands, and a name that people everywhere feared to speak.

Harry had five years at Hogwarts. That awful title. The fact that people believed he might be able to take Voldemort down for good. It wasn't a name he'd created for himself, but he couldn't just be nobody.

If he was going to do this, he may as well do it properly. He had a lot of years of experience to catch up on, not to mention it didn't seem as if Dumbledore was planning to teach him how to cast fireballs any time soon.

And if Dumbledore wasn't going to find Horcruxes, Harry would.

* * *

><p>It had been so long since Harry last had one of those dreams, that for a second he was utterly disoriented. The sleepwalking had continued, though Dumbledore was right that he couldn't walk past the wards.<p>

He was in the lovely room again, which he'd decided was ominous to say the least. Because that meant Voldemort was actively controlling the dream again.

It was the night before his OWLs were due, and the two-week deadline Voldemort had given him was at an end. Harry felt like he hadn't discovered nearly enough Horcruxes in that time, considering he hadn't managed to find any more of them at all.

Slughorn had written back, at least. So he had a potential avenue of investigation there.

Voldemort seemed unchanged by the days. Harry hadn't missed the visceral intensity of his stare. He stared back, folding his eyes, and the first few moments passed in a stand-off silence.

The fact that Voldemort spoke first was a minor gratification.

"It seems you care far less for the lives of others than I had believed." The Dark Lord spoke softly. It still seemed strange to Harry that a man of such sharp edges and cruelties could have a voice like that.

He stepped back as Voldemort rose fluidly to stand, heart beating madly in his chest.

"No," he said. "I just know how little you care for them."

His opinion on that hadn't changed. He couldn't believe that Voldemort would simply … retire himself from being a Dark Lord, just because he had Harry in his grasp. Maybe he would spare a few of his friends, but Voldemort would still hurt people. Still kill them and find a way to tear families apart.

Voldemort's head tilted, reptilian. Harry tilted his own head the other way, barely daring to blink.

"This is your last chance, Harry Potter. Surrender, give yourself to me."

Harry's lips twitched. He felt drained already - could already tell, somehow, this was a Voldemort of a different mood than he had been in the cupboard. If there had been any kinship there, faked or not, it wasn't present now.

This was Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord. Nothing else.  
>It seemed funny to Harry that he'd even thought to make such a distinction.<p>

He was going to be sick, he was sure of it.

"You are a child," Voldemort said. "You need not be concerned with this war. I could take you away from all of it."

But meeting Slughorn had clarified that much at least.

"You could," Harry said. "But you won't. Maybe if I was just…" maybe best not to let Voldemort know he knew about Horcruxes yet, in case he needed that. "I'm the Boy Who Lived. Even if you feel like you have to, you can't afford to let me live. Everyone thinks I can defeat you. As if you wouldn't hold me up like a victory trophy. That's what I am, isn't it?"

Voldemort's eyes glinted like stained glass in the sunshine. Then, slowly, the Dark Wizard smiled.

"And you believe you would be any better with the Light Side? That they will view you as anything other than a figurehead to cower behind? As normal? Anyone foolish enough to consider you more will die protecting you."

Harry felt his intestines shrivel. Voldemort stepped closer again, and this time Harry held his ground.

"I will win, Harry. You still talk about this as if you have a hope that events will play out otherwise...this decision is, as you do not seem to grasp, a simple one. It is a choice between losing comfortably or losing screaming. You may have decided you do not believe my word on sparing your loved ones the agony that awaits them – but the people you care about will die either way. Do not play the hero, my treasure, and make it worse – for them and for you. Even when they may have the eventual mercy of death, you do not."

"You won't win!"

Voldemort, terribly, seemed more amused by that statement than anything. The Dark Lord came to a stop before him, merciless.

"Let me show you."

The dream shattered again. But there were no sirens this time, no screeching or lack of control. Just chains. They closed unforgiving around his wrists and his throat as he thrashed and struggled.

Maybe Harry didn't expect the Occlumency to block Voldemort entirely, but it would be fantastic to have some mental control of the dreams they shared!

It felt like forever.

Time moved differently in dreams, but Harry hadn't expected such a thing to ever be used against him to such ruthless effect.

* * *

><p><em>The only light came from the small holes in the ceiling. The whole room was no bigger than a coffin, and there was nothing to do.<em>

_There was no way of escaping the chains, though Harry tried. He tried for what felt like days. Scratching and clawing, but he couldn't move an inch. He was suspended in a hellish sort of purgatory, with tubes scratching against his throat. Forcing sustenance and fluids into him, every so often, so he couldn't even starve._

_He tried telling himself that he was dreaming, but as the days slipped past and then the weeks, he wasn't entirely sure._

_He never saw Voldemort. He never saw anyone - even when he screamed until he could scream no more._

_He lost track of time. There was no time. Nothing changed. There was no way of counting, no sunrises or sunsets. The floor beneath him opened to dispose of his waste when needed._

_He retreated. Remembered. Remembering was the only thing he had._

_And then there was light. Light and Voldemort's grip like a blazing warmth in his soul, and there were people. So many people and voices that they seemed deafening. He had to close his eyes, shrink back into that completeness as fingers stroked through his hair._

_When he was put in his cage again, he cried._

* * *

><p>Harry startled as the room appeared again without warning. He'd forgotten what it looked like, the room, but however lovely it had been before, it seemed like heaven now.<p>

Open windows - and grass - and Voldemort sitting there watching him quietly.

Harry was abruptly aware of the fact that no time, or very little time, had really passed at all. A trick of the mind, but Harry could still feel it clawing mad at his nerve endings like the lingering of some grotesque nightmare even after he awoke.

His breathing quickened. His knees buckled, not wanting to hold his weight, fingers digging against the floor.

"Is that really what you are going to choose, Harry Potter?" Voldemort asked. "I said I would keep you alive. I have no obligation to do anything else with you, if you decide to make this difficult."

* * *

><p>It was morning. The Burrow was unchanged, but Harry couldn't believe it. Everything...was the same. Those years had never happened, in the darkness. There were boxes of Fred and George's experiments, voices bustled downstairs.<p>

Harry rolled over and vomited across the floor.

A dream, just a dream. Just Voldemort playing with his head, in a way Harry had never thought possible.

The feeling of the cage was fading already, couldn't possibly be sustained without insanity. But the memory of it lingered. The imprint of effect and possibility, and the sheer sense of coldness in his blood.

He willed his hands to stop shaking before he went downstairs.

"I'm sure I failed everything!" Hermione said. She was vibrating on the spot, distracted from her breakfast and even Ron looked a little green. Harry blinked.

"How are you feeling, Harry dear? Eggs?" Mrs Weasley asked upon spotting him. It was all so normal that Harry didn't know what to do with it. He nodded dumbly, sitting down before his knees turned to water.

Hermione was glancing at the window every two seconds.

"What's going on?" Harry asked.

She looked at him, incredulously.  
>"How can you have forgotten! Our OWLs are arriving any minute."<p>

"Wish I could forget," Ron muttered.

"I know I messed up Ancient Runes," Hermione said. "I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation-"

"Hermione!" Ron snapped. "You're not the only one who's nervous."

Harry wanted to laugh again, in some awful way. He'd cleaned up the vomit in his room, but looking at the sizzling eggs on his plate made his stomach roll all over again.

What did OWLs matter now?

"At Beauxbatons," Fleur said. "We 'ad a different way of doing things. I think eet was better. We sat our examinations after six years of study, not five, and then-"

Hermione screamed. Harry flinched and dropped the cup of tea he'd just accepted. It was, possibly, the only reaction that could have drawn her attention away from the three black specks approaching the house.

"Harry?" Ginny's brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"I-nothing. You just-just startled me," he finished. Lamely.

Mrs Weasley distractedly opened the window to let the...four owls in. Four. Weren't there three of them? Mrs Weasley seemed to have the same thought, but the owl pecked her hand, staring balefully at Harry once Mrs Weasley retreated.

"It's for you, Harry," she said, puzzled.

Ron and Hermione's discussion was washing in and out of his ears like a badly tuned radio. He reached a numb hand out to the owl, untying the scroll with ringing ears.

He had an awful feeling who it was from, even as he fumbled to get it open. There was a growing tightness in his chest.

_For you, my dearest treasure._

News of the Little Whinging slaughter didn't come until over an hour later, from the dying hands of Arabella Figg.

It was Harry's move.

* * *

><p><span><em>AN: Erm, Happy Valentine's Day?_


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